


Bits and pieces

by solitaryjo



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Death, Friendship, Gen, Ghost Stories, Kinkmeme, M/M, Poetry, Tumblr, War, animal magic, artistic endeavours, ball games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:17:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaryjo/pseuds/solitaryjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stuff from tumblr and the kinkmeme. Mainly just to keep a record of it in one place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Trivial Use of Magic

Wellington and De Lancey strode out of the tent to attend to other matters, leaving Major Colquhoun Grant and Jonathan Strange to finalise the details of the following day’s actions. 

Grant sighed and rubbed at his temples as he studied the maps on the table. Strange had noticed him doing this a lot over the last few days and decided it was time to voice his concern, as Grant’s furrowed brow suggested that whatever the problem was, it was getting worse.

“Are you alright Grant?”

_No,_ thought Grant, _it feels like the entire French army is marching though my head with the occasional pause for a burst of heavy artillery._

“It is nothing, Merlin,” he said, “Come, let us continue.”

“It does not look like nothing and you are hardly going to be able to focus on the task at hand if you are in pain. Perhaps I can help.” Grant hesitated. Though loath to admit it, he was in a great deal of pain and he supposed a small spell would be permissible if it helped him to concentrate.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, “only make it quick, we have a lot to do.”

He was expecting Strange to mutter some kind of obscure incantation and perhaps wave his hands around a bit but instead the magician got up from where he was sitting and walked around the table until he was standing directly behind him.

Grant twisted his neck to look up at him, triggering a sensation like ice and fire in the nerves down the side of his face and prompting a sharp gasp of pain.

“Keep still,” said Strange, “and try to relax.“

Grant gritted his teeth. “If I could relax,” he pointed out, “I would not have this blinding headache in the first place,” but he turned his head back and waited for Strange to continue.

Strange placed his hands on either side of Grant’s head but seemed to change his mind when he felt the Major’s jaw clench in response to his touch and lowered them until they were resting on his shoulders. He hesitated for a moment and then Grant felt him start to apply gentle pressure.

His first though was to object to this unexpected development but he supposed that Strange knew what he was doing so he closed his eyes and tried to relax as instructed.

Strange’s long fingers dug into Grant’s shoulders, seeking out the hidden knots in his muscles and working at them with a firm but not altogether unpleasant kneading motion and Grant felt the tension melting away like wax in the hot sun.

“That is more like it,” said Strange, “now we are getting somewhere.”

Grant experienced a fleeting sense of disorientation when Strange’s hands stopped moving but this disappeared as they wrapped themselves around his head and those still-soft fingers began massaging his temples. The magician was murmuring something under his breath and leaning in so close that Grant could feel the warm breath on the back of his neck. The hair on his arms stood up at the familiar sensation of magic being done and he found himself breathing in time with Strange as the pressure was released and the pain evaporated into the night. 

He took in a deep breath and let out a contented sigh.

“Better?” asked Strange 

“Yes. Thank you Merlin.” Grant cleared his throat as he watched Strange walk back round the table and resume his place “I do apologise for imposing on you to use your magic for so trivial a matter.”

Strange looked up from the map with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Magic?” he smiled. “Who said anything about magic?”


	2. The Curious Incident of the Fox in the Wartime

Jonathan Strange winced as he watched the regimental surgeon stitch the wound on Major Colquhoun Grant’s left shoulder. Grant of course insisted that it was only a flesh wound and did not hurt one bit, but Strange could not help imagining what would have happened if the bullet that had grazed his friend had ended up closer to its intended target. 

Colonel De Lancey, who was leaning against a tent pole sipping a glass of the brandy that the surgeon had brought with him in case Grant actually admitted to needing any pain relief, seemed to read his thoughts.

“This will not do, Grant,” he said. “I know Merlin here has saved our lives on more than one occasion but you must take more care and stop thinking of him as some kind of lucky charm that will protect you from the enemy’s bullets.” 

Strange tore his eyes away from the surgeon’s work and stared at De Lancey as if this was the most amazing thing he had ever heard, grabbed his coat from the chair where he had left it and ran out of the tent. The Colonel shrugged. “I do not expect I will ever understand that man.”

As he walked briskly back to his own tent, Strange mulled over the idea that De Lancey had inadvertently planted in his mind. A lucky charm, he thought. Yes. I’m sure I could do that. Although luck should have nothing to do with it. I will make sure he is protected. Telling himself that this sudden urge to ensure Major Grant’s safety in particular was due solely to the impact that the exploring officer’s death would have on the campaign, he began to search the tent for something that would make a passable amulet. 

It would have to be something small, something that Grant could wear under his uniform without drawing attention to himself. Strange rummaged though his belongings until he came upon a neatly wrapped package containing a small pendant he had bought for Arabella in Lisbon. Good, he thought, this will do nicely.

Thinking back to all the time he had spent studying in Norrell’s library, he recalled a spell that might work to endow the pendant with the magical properties required to afford Major Grant at least some degree of protection and was about to proceed when another thought occurred to him. 

A few weeks earlier he had been called upon to rescue Grant from the French when the Major had uncharacteristically managed to get himself captured. He knew that Grant was still refusing to wear anything other than his ridiculously conspicuous scarlet uniform so he decided to add a spell that would enable a person to go about his business in an unobtrusive manner.

The next morning, Strange returned to Grant’s tent, pulled the amulet out of his pocket and eagerly held it out in the palm of his hand. 

“This is for you.”

Judging by the look on Grant’s face at the sight of the heart-shaped pendant on its golden chain, he immediately realised that perhaps he should have offered a more thorough explanation. 

“I mean to say … that is…it is to protect you,” he stammered, his cheeks reddening. “It is enchanted, you see, it will prevent you from coming to any harm.”

Grant’s expression did not become any less incredulous. Although he had witnessed Strange’s talents first hand and come to expect astonishing feats from the magician, this was something he had failed to anticipate. 

“And what proof do you have that it would be effective?”

“Well, none, I suppose. I imagine it would be impossible to say whether your continued survival would be due to the effects of the magic or just good luck.”

Grant raised an eyebrow.

“Oh come on Grant,” said Strange, “surely it cannot do any harm” and then “no one need know of course” as he sensed that Grant’s reluctance was due more to his fear of losing his reputation than to any actual concerns about the amulet’s powers.

Seeing that he had no way of winning the argument and telling himself that he would remove this silly trinket as soon as the magician left his tent, Grant begrudgingly accepted the pendant from Strange’s outstretched hand and placed the chain over his head. The air around Grant seemed to ripple and Strange stared open-mouthed at the sight of a fox with fur the colour or burnt amber and a bushy, white-tipped tail standing in front of him and attempting to extricate itself from the Major’s uniform, which lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. The fox stared back at him for a moment then turned and bolted out of the tent.

Strange dashed after it, yelling “Stop that fox!” and immediately regretted his choice of words as half a dozen men drew their pistols and began firing on the fleeing animal, drowning out his horrified cries of “No! Wait! Hold your fire!” However, although at least some of the men must have been hitting their target, the fox continued to race through the camp, stopping briefly to look back before disappearing into the woods.

_Well,_ thought Strange, _at least I got the protection part right._

His pleasure at the success of that spell was quickly extinguished by the realisation that this was NOT GOOD and when De Lancey approached him with a puzzled look and a “What on earth is going on?” he found himself trying to explain that Grant was not supposed to actually change form but only to be perceived as a natural part of the environment by any enemy who should happen to look in his direction. 

At first, De Lancey seemed like he was about to laugh but then the severity of the situation appeared to sink in and he assumed a more pragmatic attitude. “Right,” he said, “Lord Wellington is not due to return for another two days so we will just have to find a way to get him back before then.”

Strange had not even thought about Wellington’s reaction to the news that one of his best officers had vanished in so unexpected a manner. He was consumed with the appalling notion that he would never see Grant again and it took him a while to realise that De Lancey was asking him something.

“What was that?”

“Is Major Grant still in there or does it just have the mind and instincts of a wild animal?”

“I do not know,” sighed Strange,”does it make any difference?” But he knew it did. As much as he was fervently wishing that Grant was not gone, he also hoped that the fox was just thinking whatever foxes think and was unaware of its past existence, as he imagined it would be most disconcerting to suddenly find oneself trapped in the body of another type of creature.

“Well, if some part of Grant’s mind is in there, he certainly will not stray far from the camp and we may be able to get him back before anyone notices he is gone.”

Strange let out an exasperated sigh. “Since you seem to be the expert on the subject, perhaps you could tell me how we should proceed?”

“I do not know,” replied De Lancey with a smirk that suggested perhaps he was not taking the whole thing quite so seriously after all. “Maybe you could set a trap and lure him back with magic. Or just stand in the woods and shout his name, I am sure he would come if you called.”

Strange did his best to ignore this remark, decided that De Lancey was going to be no use at all and returned in haste to his own tent. He stayed awake for hours, going over and over the spell that he had cast on the pendant and trying to work out why it had gone wrong and what he could do to reverse it but eventually he fell into a fitful sleep.

He was awakened by the feeling of something warm nudging against his arm, which was hanging off the edge of the cot. He turned his head groggily and, to his amazement, found himself face to face with the fox, which was sitting there watching him with its head cocked, the amulet around its neck glinting in the early morning sunlight that was creeping in through the gaps in the tent.

He moved his hand slowly to avoid startling the animal and carefully felt around for the chain in the soft fur, stifling an inappropriate giggle when the fox pushed its head into his hand as dogs tend to do when their masters scratch behind their ears.

This, it turned out, was actually a good way of distracting the creature. He reached out his other hand and gently stroked its head until he managed to get a grip on the necklace and lift it up over the black-tipped ears, only to find himself confronted with the spectacle of Grant kneeling on the floor beside the cot entirely devoid of clothing. Unfortunately for Strange, his hand seemed to have a life of its own and continued to stroke the Major’s head for a good few seconds until he noticed and pulled it away sharply.

The corner of Grant’s mouth twitched and Strange lowered his head, bracing himself for the inevitable outburst of anger and derision, but what he actually heard was a familiar deep chuckle. He met Grant’s eyes, which sparkled with barely suppressed mirth, and the two of them burst out laughing uncontrollably.

“Well,” said Grant when he managed to catch his breath, “that was quite an adventure!”


	3. The Thrill of the Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuing adventures of Major Fox.

Major Grant and Colonel De Lancey were sitting by a fire enjoying a glass or two of wine. It was a pleasantly cool evening and the intelligence that Grant had just brought back suggested that they would not face any action for at least a few more weeks. 

That news must have spurred Lord Wellington into taking action to alleviate the men’s boredom, as an excited young captain came running up to them and breathlessly delivered the news. “His lordship has asked me to inform you that he will be riding to hounds in the morning if you should care to join him.”

Wellington regarded hunting both as an excellent sport and as admirable training for teaching a soldier to improve his horsemanship and learn how to find his way about a country as quickly as possible, and he had even had a pack of hounds sent out from England to make sure he achieved the best possible result.

“Thank you,” said Grant, looking at De Lancey with a raised eyebrow.

He had never taken part in the hunts – during his youth in the Scotland he had often amused himself by spending his days in the foothills of the mountains and had become quite fond of the foxes that made their dens in the cairns so he could not bring himself to contemplate killing their kin.

De Lancey had ridden out on several occasions, mostly because he appreciated the exercise and it gave him a chance to enjoy his friendship with Wellington under less formal circumstances, but ever since his inadvertent brush with the natural world he had become quite passionate in his opposition to a pastime that he now regarded as barbaric.

He was about to say as much when he noticed Jonathan Strange approaching and a glint appeared in his eyes. 

“Keep him talking,” he whispered to Grant, receiving a puzzled look in reply as he rose and excused himself on the pretext of important business elsewhere.

After talking with Strange for an hour or so, Grant could no longer contain his curiosity so he bade the magician good night and made his way to De Lancey’s tent.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing.” De Lancey protested, feigning innocence. “Yet.”

He reached under the pillow on his bunk and pulled out a small woven bag that Grant recognised immediately. “But I thought we might be able to do something to help our four-legged friends.”

“Are you mad? You expect me to agree to use Merlin’s magic without his knowledge? We have no idea what will happen.”

De Lancey opened the bag and took out the golden pendant, swinging it to and fro in front of Grant’s face. 

“Oh come on, you’re an old hand at it now and surely it is worth the risk to save one of your fellow creatures.”

“You are not going to let this go, are you?” De Lancey shook his head, a gleeful look playing over his face.

Grant sighed, he supposed he could at least listen to the idea that had De Lancey so excited. “I take it the plan is for me to draw the pack away from any other foxes in the vicinity.”

“Of course.” De Lancey was looking ridiculously proud of himself. “It is perfect. You will be protected by the amulet and the other foxes will have time to get to a safe distance.”

Grant was not convinced.

“How will you make sure they pursue the correct fox?”

“I will ride with them and focus their attention in the right direction.”

“But how will you know it is me?”

“You forget I saw you the last time. You have quite a distinctive appearance.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, it seems you do not forget your heritage when you are transformed – the Cross of Saint Andrew is marked out quite clearly in white fur on your forehead.”

This seemed to please Grant a great deal.

“Besides.” De Lancey glanced downward. “You have a much thicker tail than the local animals.”

Grant rolled his eyes, marvelling anew at the man’s ability to turn even the most casual remark into an innuendo. “And how do you know I will return safely?”

“Oh stop worrying. You have always come back for Merlin.” He stuck out his lower lip in a petulant pout and fluttered his eyelashes. “Would I be wrong in assuming you will do the same for me?”

“Damn it William.“ Grant threw up his hands in surrender. “You know I cannot resist that face.”

De Lancey beamed. “I knew you would not let me down. We should do it now so you have time to gather your senses and figure out the lie of the land. If anyone asks for you in the morning, I will tell them you had to attend an urgent meeting.”

He looked Grant up and down with a wicked grin.

“Right then. Get that uniform off.”

\-------- 

The hunting party gathered early the next morning – headquarters staff were joined by men from every regiment of the line, in every conceivable uniform, and on every sort of horse. De Lancey made sure he rode close to Wellington, who liked to be out in front – sometimes too near the hounds for his huntsman’s peace of mind.

The hunts in the Peninsula followed much the same pattern as those back home. The only forbidden terrain was past the Allied lines in the direction of the French. It was understood that a fox must be allowed to make good its escape should it seek safety beyond the Allied outposts.

They set off at a fair pace and it was not long before the hounds picked up a scent. De Lancey scanned the ground in front of him to try and catch sight of their prey and cursed under his breath when he saw a small, skinny fox dart across the track and into the bushes just a few hundred yards ahead. “Damn it,” he muttered, “where are you Grant?”

From his vantage point on the higher ground, Grant watched the hunting party slow down as they approached the edge of the dense undergrowth – the hounds could follow the fox in there but the horses would not find it so easy. He was fully aware of himself and waited for De Lancey to look in his direction before breaking cover and making a dash for the more accessible woods to the north.

De Lancey smiled in recognition, shouting out and pointing in his direction and the huntsman and dogs took off after their new target.

Grant was enjoying the exhilaration of the chase, allowing the animal’s natural instincts to take control as he zig-zagged across the open ground and into the trees, when he almost ran into another fox, a small female that had clearly never encountered a hunt before and just stood frozen in her tracks.

He could hear the pack on his tail and, worried that it would follow the scent of this new fox or split up and pursue them both, he barked at her to follow him. His voice was apparently just as commanding in this language as in any other because she immediately turned towards him and gave a little yelp. They ran until they reached the other side of the woods, only to find a small party from the hunt had ridden around the edge of the trees in an attempt to head them off and drive them back towards the hounds. Grant swerved away to the east and, slipping almost under the belly of the leading horse, set his head for the open country that lay in that direction and led to the Allied outposts, urging on his companion until they crossed into the safety of no man’s land.

“What a peculiar thing.” Wellington turned to De Lancey “The larger fox seemed to be protecting the other. I have never seen anything like it. Perhaps this is not to be our day after all.“ With the sun now beating down and the imperative to avoid exhausting either men or horses, he reluctantly gave the order to return to camp.

\-------

De Lancey paced back and forward in his tent. It had been dark for two hours and there was still no sign of the fox. Much as he hated to admit it, it seemed as if Grant might have been right to worry about the outcome of their mission. Unless… he would not have gone back to Merlin instead would he? Not now that the two of them had become so close? Perhaps there was something about the magic itself that would make him return to the necklace’s owner. He was just about to bite the bullet and seek out Strange’s help when he heard a snuffling form outside the tent and a pointy nose appeared through the open flaps.

“Oh thank God!” he exclaimed as the fox calmly walked over and sat down in front of him. “You have no idea…”

The fox tilted its head to one side and the look it gave him was so like Grant’s exasperated expression that he could not help laughing as he bent down to remove the necklace.

\------- 

About two months later as the army was preparing to move to a new position, Grant and De Lancey were lying on a bank a short distance from the tents, eating their lunch and waiting for the order to strike camp, when they heard a rustling in the bushes.

De Lancey glanced up and almost choked on his sandwich. Standing in front of Grant as if she wanted to show him something was a little red fox and at her feet were three tiny cubs with big bushy tails and diagonal white crosses on their foreheads.


	4. The Call Of The Wild

“Again?” Grant sighed. “Must I?”

They were sitting in the kitchen of an abandoned farmhouse several miles from the French camp and had spent the last few hours trying to come up with an alternative plan.

“I’m afraid so, Major.” Strange did not look too happy about the prospect himself. “Lord Wellington needs the information and I can see no other way of obtaining it.”

”Are you certain these ... transformations.. are not going to have any lasting effects?” De Lancey gave voice to Grant’s own concerns.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. From what I can tell, three times should be perfectly safe, although it may start to get a little more risky after that.”

Grant and De Lancey exchanged a worried glance but neither of them wanted to admit to using Strange’s magic without his permission so they remained silent as he continued.

“All you need to do it sneak into the French camp and find out exactly how many cannon they have. Now that you have mastered the intricacies of the spell, I assume you will be able to count.”

”Well, yes, but..”

“Splendid.” Strange handed over the gold pendant. “I will let you get on with it then.”

De Lancey just shrugged and followed the magician out of the room, pausing to clap Grant on the back as he passed. “Good luck.” He leaned closer and whispered with a grin, “no cubs this time please.”

\------- 

It was several hours later when Strange heard a scratching at the kitchen door, and the sense of relief was just as strong as it had been when Grant had returned from his first vulpine adventure. De Lancey had retired for the night but Strange found he was unable to even consider sleeping until he knew the Major was safe and back in human form. 

Despite what he had told them, he was unsure what the lasting effects of the spell might be and vowed to destroy the talisman as soon as he got it back.

He pulled the door open and was almost bowled over by a flurry of red fur as the fox pushed past him and ran out into the hallway.

“Grant?” He felt a little aggrieved as he watched it bound up the stairs and push open the door to De Lancey’s room. “Oh well,” he sighed, “I suppose you want to report your findings directly to the Colonel.” 

De Lancey was not sleeping either. Lying on the bed in his shirt and breeches, he was starting to think that he should have told Strange the truth about their efforts to sabotage Wellington’s hunt. Besides, even if this plan succeeded, they going to have to explain how they had come by the information and he could not for the life of him come up with a plausible lie. 

He got to his feet and was about to go and confess everything when the door flew open and the fox leaped straight at him, planting its front paws on his chest and causing him to lose his balance and sit back down with a bump.

De Lancey stared at the animal, which was now sitting in front of him watching every little move he made as if it were stalking its prey and waiting for the right moment to strike. He reached down carefully and lifted the chain over its head. 

Accustomed as he now was to the sight of the shimmer in the air and the sudden appearance of a naked man at this feet, he felt his breath catch at what he saw before him: Grant’s physical form may have reverted to normal, but there was still something uncanny and wild in his eyes.

“Good lord.” He searched Grant’s face with a worried frown. “What on earth has got you so worked up?”

Grant gave a low grunt and sat back on his haunches, making it very evident what had got him worked up. He pounced forward and pushed De Lancey back onto the bed, growling deep in his throat as he pulled himself up and pressed his body hard against the other man’s chest. 

“Wait!” De Lancey gasped as Grant ran his tongue hungrily over his jaw and down the side of his neck. “You are not yet yourself. Perhaps we should .. ” He fought the urge to respond to Grant’s fervoured kisses and summoned up enough strength to push him off the bed, but Grant grabbed his arm and pulled him down to the floor as he fell back. 

For a moment they just knelt there, breathing hard and unable to look away from each other until Grant’s instincts took over once more. 

He spun De Lancey around and bent him over the bed.

De Lancey could no longer control himself and he pushed back against the weight of Grant’s body, his own cock straining against his breeches as the heat of desire overwhelmed him. 

“Oh!” he gave a yelp as he felt Grant’s teeth nipping at the nape of his neck and moaned with delight as this only seemed to add to the urgency.

Locked together now, they moved faster and faster until Grant’s whole body tensed and he let out a primal howl as he reached his climax. De Lancey felt something deep within him resonate to the sound of his lover letting go with such reckless abandon and he echoed the cry of the wild as his body shuddered with the ecstasy of release.

Down in the kitchen, Strange sat up with start. That first though that crossed his mind was that the spell had gone wrong and Grant was in excruciating pain as the reversal took effect. He was out the door and halfway up the stairs before his memory took him back to his days in the English countryside and he recalled where he had heard those sounds before.


	5. No Such Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Jonathan Strange and Mister Norrell Society of Magicians Halloween Celebration on tumblr

As they made their way through the rain towards the large abandoned farmhouse where Lord Wellington had decided to set up his headquarters, a group of Spaniards came running up to them and started yelling and gesticulating with such fervour that the General was temporarily rendered speechless. 

He turned to Major Grant in exasperation. “Good lord. What on earth has got them so excited?”

“They are warning us not to go any further, my lord,” Grant translated, bracing himself for the inevitable reaction, “they say it is haunted.”

Wellington shot him a withering look. “Nonsense. Merlin may have changed my mind about the existence of fairies and the like, but ghosts are an entirely different matter. There are no such things and that is the end of it.”

“Speaking of Merlin, my lord.” De Lancey picked up a stick and tried to scrape some of the mud from his boots. “What is he up to at the moment?”

“Oh, he will be joining us tomorrow, Colonel. He is moving the countryside around again to make things more difficult for the French.”

Wellington turned and started walking back towards the train of ox carts they were using to transport equipment and supplies over the otherwise impassable roads. “Unload the wagons, men, we will remain here for the duration.”

Moving closer to Grant, De Lancey commented, sotto voce, “haunted, is it? Things that go bump in the night and all that? This could make for an interesting evening.”

Grant stared straight ahead and managed to keep a straight face until Wellington was a few yards away before turning to De Lancey with a muttered “damn it, WIlliam” and a look that might well have been construed as insubordination if it had been observed.

“Perhaps we should not joke about it though. Scepticism is one thing, but after what we have seen these past few months, I would question the wisdom of mocking something we do not understand.”

“Well you can go and sleep in a tent if you want to, Major.” De Lancey glanced around. “But I for one will welcome the feeling of a solid roof over my head and the luxury of a proper bed for a change, even if it means sharing the accommodation with all manner of spooks and ghouls.“

He gathered up his belongings and headed for the shelter of the building, the emphasis that he had put on the word ‘bed’ prompting Grant to hurry after him.

\------- 

After dinner, Wellington and the other officers headed out to inspect the camp, leaving Grant and De Lancey to sort out the arrangements in the farmhouse. With no immediate threat of attack, they had no reason to stint on the wine and were starting to feel its effects.

De Lancey, who was leaning on the mantel expounding the virtues of a particularly fine vintage he had sampled in Talavera, suddenly froze and stared at the open door. 

“Did you see that?”

Grant rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re trying to make me believe you saw a ghost. I may be open minded on the subject but do not think I will be so easily fooled.”

“I swear I saw movement out there. You’re the one who believes in these things. Are you not even curious?”

“Fine.” Grant pushed himself up from the armchair he had discovered under a pile of old clothes in the corner and walked slowly over to the door. He stuck his head out into the hallway and made a point of looking up and down as well as left and right. “There is nothing there,” he declared, “as you well know. Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes, thank you.” De Lancey grinned back at him from the comfort of the armchair.

“Oh very funny. You could have just asked.”

“Or ordered you to move? Or maybe just sat on your lap?”

Grant shook his head. “You are incorrigible.” He smiled as he sat on the arm of the chair and ruffled De Lancey’s hair. “And not a little drunk. I think it is about time we….”

A loud crash reverberated through the walls and De Lancey sat up with a start, cursing as the wine splashed over the sleeve of his shirt.

“It is just the wind catching the shutters.” The slight tremor In Grant’s voice suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“Just the wind,” he repeated in an even less certain tone, as a low moaning echoed around the room.

De Lancey walked over to the window and looked out at the trees that were silhouetted in the moonlight now the rain had passed. He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper - “There is no wind” - and picked up a candlestick from the table as he turned to Grant with eyes full of mischief. “We must go and investigate!”

Retrieving his pistol from the belt he had hung up on the door handle, Grant shrugged at the look of amusement on the younger man’s face. “What? Just because I haven’t dismissed the possibility of a supernatural explanation, it doesn’t mean I am prepared to be found wanting if we are faced with a gang of thieves or an enemy spy.”

The moaning got louder as they approached a small door at the end of the hallway and Grant cautiously pulled it open, revealing a rickety wooden staircase leading down into a dark cellar.

They descended carefully, brushing cobwebs out of their hair and coughing on the dust disturbed by the sudden influx of air.

As De Lancey made his way through the wine racks that filled the cellar, he held the candle close to the bottles to examine the labels and nodded with approval. “Not bad at all. At least this won’t be a total waste of time.”

He was so engrossed in this pursuit that he barely noticed how the shadows cast by the flickering candle pulsated in time with the moans or heard the bloodcurdling whispers that seemed to be emanating from the walls themselves until Grant put a hand on his arm. “You’ve had your fun. Perhaps we should just leave it alone.”

De Lancey pulled a bottle out of the nearest rack and laughed. “Oh come on. I was only winding you up. There are no such things as ghosts. I am sure it is just rats and other creatures that have made their home in this godforsaken place. Let’s liberate some of this wine and….”

Without warning, the candle flame shuddered violently and disappeared as if snuffed out by an invisible hand.

“Like I was saying…” De Lancey’s voice wavered as the air around them turned icy cold and the darkness was infused with a sickly green luminescence creeping out of the cracks in the floor.

He reached for Grant’s hand and moved closer, his breathing rapid and his wide eyes reflecting the eerie glow. “Alright. I admit it. This is not natural.”

The lambent tendrils coalesced into a ragged figure that emitted an ungodly howl and began to advance towards them, arms outstretched.

De Lancey dropped the bottle and bolted up the steps.

He burst out of the door at the top with such speed that he almost collided with Wellington, who, it seemed, had come to find out what all the noise was about.

“My lord, we have to…“ he gasped, forgetting himself in his panic and grasping the General’s elbow in an attempt to pull him away from the danger. “There is… I mean I saw… ghost!”

Wellington looked down at the hand on his arm and raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed?” He appeared to be rather enjoying De Lancey’s confusion at his refusal to budge and could not help breaking into a smile as Grant and Strange emerged from the cellar, doubled over with laughter.


	6. Jogos de Bola

They wandered away from the crowds of soldiers, sailors and camp followers who thronged the quays and headed into a quieter part of the city, strolled amiably side by side as they drank from a bottle of wine that De Lancey had liberated from the last inn they had stopped at and pausing occasionally to listen to music or watch the young people dancing in the streets. 

Rounding a corner, they came upon a group of men engaged in one of the traditional local pastimes. 

“Oh look!” Strange tugged at Grant’s arm with excitement. ”A game! D’you think they’ll let us play? Ask them Grant, go on, ask them.” 

Grant exchanged a glance with De Lancey, who shrugged. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.” 

The men were happy enough to accommodate British soldiers who had done so much for their country, even if they were three sheets to the wind, and two of them stepped aside to let Strange and Grant to take their places on opposing teams. 

Grant translated as they explained the rules, which as far as Strange could tell involved throwing a little ball and then trying to get some slightly larger ones closer to it than your opponents did. 

He thought it sounded simple enough, but the effects of the wine combined with his general lack of coordination made it almost impossible for him to keep his shots within the boundaries of the court and he soon found his team was down by several points. 

“D’Lancey.” Strange beckoned the colonel over and threw an arm around his neck. “S’not fair y’know.” 

De Lancey tried to look serious. “What is not fair, Merlin?” 

“Grant. He’s clearly played this before, ‘snot fair” 

“I am sure he has. I fancy he learnt a similar game in Spain.” 

Strange looked at him with a grin. "Am going to beat him though.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Am.” Strange looked around as if to check nobody was listening and declared in an exaggerated whisper, “Magic!” 

De Lancey chuckled. “I really do not think that is a good idea, Merlin, given your current condition.” 

Strange just put a finger to his lips. “Shhhhh. Watch.” 

Grant waved cheerfully from the other end of the court. “Ready to admit defeat, Merlin?” 

He struck a victory pose but rather spoiled the effect by tripping over the raised edge of the playing surface and going sprawling headlong into the dirt. 

He got to his feet unsteadily and brushed himself down, trying to ignore the sniggers from the Portuguese men as he lined up his shot. 

De Lancey watched Strange close his eyes in a look of intense concentration and squinted at the court to see if he could discern the effects of the spell. There was no obvious deviation in the path taken by the ball, but when Grant started to walk after it he pulled up short and looked around in consternation, almost as if he had felt the sting of a flying insect or some other disturbance. Shaking his head, he took a few more steps but suddenly stopped again, crying out and turning a most peculiar shade of scarlet. 

De Lancey grabbed Strange’s arm and shook him. “Merlin. Stop it. You’re hurting him!” 

“What?” Strange opened his eyes. “Oh God. I didn’t mean to!” He turned to De Lancey apologetically. “I was only trying to move his balls.” 

De Lancey looked back at Grant and noticed the effort he was making to keep his back to the other men as he sidled off the court and sat down, pulling his coat onto his lap and seemingly unable to tear his gaze away from Strange. 

“Oh Merlin,” he giggled, “I rather think you may have succeeded.” 

\------- 

De Lancey had long since disappeared off with a group of young cavalry officers and the sky was starting to glow with the light of a new day as they made their way back towards the inn. Grant had his arm around Strange’s shoulders and as they passed an alleyway between two buildings he looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched and pulled him into the narrow space. 

For a second, Strange was worried that Grant had actually taken offence at his earlier mistake and was going to chide him for causing such embarrassment, but the look in the major’s eyes was not one of anger. 

He felt warm breath on his neck as Grant pushed him up against the wall and murmured in his ear. “Do it again.” 

“What?” Strange was not sure he had heard correctly. 

“That magic. Do it again.” 

“I’m not sure I can. It was not meant to…” 

Grant raised an eyebrow and gave him a wicked grin. “Then I suppose we must do this the old-fashioned way.” He took Strange’s hand and pressed it hard against his straining cock. “That is, if you have no objections.” 


	7. The Art Of War

De Lancey glanced up from the book he was reading and smiled at the look of intense concentration on Grant’s face as he worked away at the sketch pad resting on his knee. 

“You know there is really no need to draw the landscape round the camp. I think we know our way around by now.” 

“There is no harm in keeping one’s hand in,” Grant responded without raising his head, ”besides, I find it quite relaxing.” 

He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he did not hear Strange coming up behind him until the magician was virtually looking over his shoulder, at which point he gave a start and the pad slipped off his knee onto the ground. 

Strange bent down to pick it up and started flicking through the pages. 

“Ah. Merlin.” De Lancey said. “What do you think of Major Grant’s artistic talents?” 

“Well, Colonel, he certainly seems to enjoy drawing a particular type of view.” 

De Lancey had seen plenty of Grant’s sketches before and would have taken no further interest but for the odd tone of this comment and the peculiar look on Strange’s face. 

“Let me see then.” He held out his hand. 

Grant’s hurried “Oh I am sure there is no need for that…” as he grabbed the pad back from Strange only served to pique De Lancey’s interest further. 

“Show me, Major. That is an order.” 

Reluctantly, Grant got to his feet, opened the sketch pad and handed it over. “There is no particular artistic merit in it. It is mostly the topographical features I am concerned with.” 

De Lancey looked at Strange, who was still standing behind Grant, and raised his eyebrows when the magician grinned and mimed a page-turning action. 

“Really? Well, perhaps some of them have more - what did you call it, artistic merit? - than others.” 

He started to look through the pages of the pad, admiring the skill with which Grant was able to capture the details of the surrounding countryside, and was about to compliment him on this but was astonished to see that the Major’s face had turned a most alarming shade of scarlet and he was staring at the ground as if he wished it would open up and swallow him. 

Confused, De Lancey threw a little frown at Strange, who rolled his eyes and tried again, signalling for him to keep turning. 

After several blank pages he suddenly discovered his own profile, set against a backdrop he recognised as their current surroundings. This did not come as a particular surprise, after all Grant was sometimes called upon to record the features of those he suspected of consorting with the enemy and there was no reason he should not practice that as well. 

This idea became less and less plausible as he slowly turned the remaining pages. The portraits were unlike anything else in Grant’s work. Whereas the landscapes were quick sketches designed primarily to convey information to others, these were clearly meant only for the eyes of the artist. Moreover, while many were drawn from life, others … well he was pretty sure Grant had never seen him in that position or state of undress. 

The thought of the other man imagining such scenarios and spending so much of his time turning them into such beautifully rendered pictures sent a wave of heat surging through his entire body and he felt his own cheeks flushing as red as the Spanish sunset as the images began to come to life in his mind. 

Strange could no longer suppress his amusement. “Well, gentlemen,” he sniggered as he turned on his heels and walked away, “I will leave the two of you to discuss your, erm, artistic merits.” 


	8. A Horse Is A Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one for Wellington's birthday

“We have to do something,” De Lancey insisted. “It is his birthday after all.”

Strange gave him a doubtful look. “I’m not sure about this, colonel. I may not be privy to his lordship’s inner thoughts but I am fairly certain he is not the type to celebrate birthdays. Besides, what on earth does one get for a man like that?”

“Good point, Merlin.” Grant shook his head. “What do you think William? You know him as well as anyone. What would he wish for?”

“In truth, I think he would wish for the war to be over and the killing to stop.” De Lancey sighed. “I saw him after Badajoz, you know. Weeping over the men who had fallen. He will never admit it but he feels responsible and just wants to put an end to the bloodshed.”

Strange rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, if I could do that we wouldn’t be sitting here now would we? Any more bright ideas?”

Grant looked pensive. “You know,“ he said, “it must be awfully lonely at the top. I know he thinks of his staff as family but if I were him I would wish for nothing more than a true friend and confidant. Somebody I could talk to on an equal footing without fear of being judged or having my words repeated. I don’t suppose you can magic up one of those for him Merlin?”

Strange was about to retort with his usual bluntness when his eye was caught by the sight of the 16th Light Dragoons going through their morning drill. He smiled enigmatically. “He already has one. He just doesn’t know it.”

\-------

Lord Wellington made his way to the stables, intending to escape the confines of his headquarters and the surrounding encampment so he could be alone with his thoughts. The losses of the past few months weighed heavily on his mind and the last thing he wanted was to spend the day putting on a false smile for everyone who offered their felicitations.

When he arrived, however, he was in for quite a shock. The stall where he had left Copenhagen was empty and a young man in a long brown coat was sitting on an upturned barrel in the corner, chewing on a piece of straw.

Wellington drew his sword. “Who the devil are you, sir, and what have you done with my horse?”

The man jumped up from his makeshift seat and gave a small bow, his hair falling forward over his shoulder in an elaborate braid. He removed the straw from his mouth and gave a broad, toothy smile. “Greetings, my lord.”

Wellington frowned. “You did not answer my questions, sir.”

“I’m not sure I am allowed to.” The man shrugged. “Perhaps you should ask your magician.”

“Merlin?” Wellington advanced a couple of paces, raising his sword so it was level with the stranger’s chest. “What on earth has he got to do with this?”

“Think about it.” The cheeky grin that accompanied this suggestion was too much for Wellington.

“You will address me in the proper manner, sir,” he growled. “You may not be one of my men but I’ve a good mind to have you flogged for your insolence.”

His anger was met with a wink and another wide smile.

“Well it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve whipped me, although from what my friends tell me you are a lot more lenient with that particular implement than most of your officers.”

Wellington’s sword arm dropped as he began to realise what was going on. He looked from the empty stall to the grinning stranger and back again and shook his head in disbelief.

“Copenhagen?”

“The one and only.” The man stepped forward and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally talk with you, my lord. Please do not judge Mr Strange too harshly for this, he was only trying to help.”

\-------

De Lancey smiled and clapped Strange on the shoulder as they watched Wellington walking through the camp, deep in conversation with his old friend.

“How long will it last?”

Strange swallowed nervously. “Until they return to the stables, I hope, or else we will have to spend the rest of the day convincing anyone who sees the transformation that it was just a figment of their imagination.”

\-------

When they joined Wellington for dinner that evening, his mood seemed a lot lighter than it had for the last few days. There was even the hint of a smile on his lips as he looked at the three of them and raised his glass.

“To good friends, in whatever form they may appear.”

Strange lifted his glass and inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Happy birthday, my lord.”

 

 


	9. Grieve Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem. Inspired by a prompt posted on tumblr by [onstraysod](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod)

I am already dead, my life

Extinguished by his final breath

And now I have no earthly cause

To fear a second, lesser death. 

  


Although I was not by his side

I felt the cold steel pierce my heart 

And in the blinking of an eye

The world I knew was torn apart. 

  


The blade that took his life and let it

Seep into this blood-soaked soil

With one swift stroke cut through the ties

That bound me to this mortal coil. 

  


So when I turn and ride to meet

The charge of the advancing foe

Do not attempt to hold me back

I hear him call. I have to go. 

  


And if young men should chance to ask

Why I fell fighting in their stead

Pray tell them of my love and say

“Grieve not. He was already dead.” 


End file.
